221B
by kenzimone
Summary: A collection of 221B drabbles.
1. Battlefield

**Title:** Battlefield  
**Fandom:** Sherlock  
**Characters:** John Watson  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 221B  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Notes: **I don't really know why my brain made me come out of a year long hiatus to write a post-_TRF_ drabble on the eve of the season three premiere, especially since it's already been covered by so many talented people and probably far more eloquently than I managed to do in 221 words. But here we are. Enjoy.

* * *

John's world doesn't crumble.

It trembles and lurches, shakes hard enough to throw him off his feet, but it doesn't break.

London is a battlefield, a front line hiding beneath a veneer of normalcy, and Sherlock Holmes is the General of their army of two, waging an impossible war as John follows.

He's walked shoulder to shoulder with brothers in arms through far more dangerous places than this. He's followed them into battle with the promise of ruin and carried them through burning and scorching wastelands, where the air dances on the horizon and death shadows every step.

His skin have been stained by the blood of men and women far greater than Sherlock Holmes – men and women _good_ in a way Sherlock might one day have become – and John's held their lives in his hands and watched them slip away between his fingers, their eyes seeking his and their teeth smeared red with death and fear and pain and _God, no _and _John_.

John's world doesn't crumble. It shakes and throws him to his knees, hands sinking into blistering sand as blood pools beneath his palms, and he breathes and chokes, the smell of burning metal on the air and the taste of loss on his tongue.

Still, he rises.

London might be a battlefield, but John's been here before.


	2. Blood

**Title:** Blood  
**Fandom:** Sherlock  
**Characters:** John Watson  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 221B  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Notes: **While watching _His Last Vow_ I was positive that the confrontation with Magnussen would play out differently than it actually did. This is something along the lines of what I half expected/half hoped would happen.

* * *

It's not the first time he's been underestimated. It _is_ the first time he's allowed it to go this far.

His bearing and stance and file says Afghanistan veteran with all that it entails, yet people tend to focus on his medical degree.

_But you're a doctor?_ they say, picturing sterile, air conditioned rooms tucked safely inside solidly defended bases, while John dreams of stinging sand and endless sky and flesh torn apart by shrapnel and bullet, of blood and burning fat and charred skin, voices raised in alarm and rage and pain and warning.

The man standing before him is dangerous, but so is John.

It's easy to catch Magnussen off guard, to raise one hand to grip his throat and hold him in place while the other plucks the gun out of John's coat pocket. The muzzle slots in nicely beneath Magnussen's chin, and John might be somewhat of a writer but in situations like these he's never been a man of many words.

He pulls the trigger and the bullet does the rest, burrowing through tissue and bone. Some of it splatters onto John's face. It's warm, and he can feel it even as Sherlock grabs his arm and twists him away from the falling body.

That's all right; John's a doctor. He doesn't mind a little blood.


	3. Brand-new

**Title:** Brand-new  
**Fandom:** Sherlock  
**Characters:** Mary Morstan  
**Rating:** G  
**Word Count:** 221B  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Notes: **I refuse to believe that it was a coincidence that Mary's best friend worked for Magnussen.

* * *

Seven months after she's raised from the grave, Mary Morstan joins a gym.

Civilian life has made her slow. She feels sluggish, not as quick on her feet as she once was, weighed down by a real life built from scratch; apartment, part time job, nursing school, acquaintances, a _schedule_.

Magnussen is still in London, a spider spinning his web, _expanding_ it, and Mary can feel the strings' fretful trembling. She never has liked loose ends.

She strikes up a conversation with the brunette on the machine next to her. She's a pretty girl, eyes dark and wide, face flushed with exercise; unattached, new to London and starting fresh with a posh job, a pay rise and new wardrobe to match, an unfamiliar social scene to blend into, and a New Year's resolution still fresh enough that it might actually stick.

Mary knows the file lying on her kitchen table by heart by now, and it's easy to bait her hooks with mutual interests. She waits three weeks until she suggests they go out for a coffee.

"Now don't laugh, Mary," Janine says, sipping her latte. "but I can usually tell when it comes to people. And I think we're going to be great friends."

"I agree," Mary says and smiles, reaching out to squeeze her new friend's hand. "The best."


End file.
